I would stand by this window every morning and observe him going through his routine. I would then call Pretoria. I was very interested in what happened to him daily.-Colonel John Hardman
Nelson Mandela, the legend and change agent, is known as one of the great political leaders of recent times. An international hero, Nelson Mandela’s lifelong dedication to stamp out oppression in South Africa won him the Nobel Peace Prize and the presidency. However, the road to freeing his people took work. He spent eighteen of his twenty-seven years in Robben Island prison for refusing to give up the fight against apartheid. During my vacation in South Africa this past Fall, I visited the prison.
Robben Island takes its name from the Dutch word seals (Robben), located north of Cape Town. The south african locals called it Robbeneiland. Political activists and criminals were housed in the prison from the late-seventeenth century until 1996 when apartheid ended. The island is basically oval shaped and flat, barely above sea level, about two miles long and one-eighth mile wide. At the base of the island sits a pearly white stone barrier in front of the pier. Lonely and desolate, it’s out there in the middle of nowhere..
So, one cool, sunny November morning, we took a boat there on the Indian Ocean. Although deep baby blue and breath-taking, the Indian Ocean waters were calm. Once we arrived at the island, the lack of green vegetation amazed me. Mostly sand, we saw the graveyard where prisoners were buried and the bathroom hide-out where they met and talk without being overheard. Eventually, the guide took us on a tour of the prison grounds as well as inside, and I actually saw some seals wobbling and hawking on the island nearby.
Today, Robben Island is a South African National Heritage Site and museum with millions of visitors every year! Therefore, please take a moment to look at the photos and imagine Mandela’s journey of imprisonment. South Africa is free today because of his efforts and the deep committment he had to his people! Thank You for Reading! Until Next Time!
Hello Everyone!My journey to South Africa is a three-part series.
In November last year, I took a break from writing my latest novel, Leaving Henry, and went on my first Safari Trek to South Africa. Kruger National Park is South Africa’s most famous safari, and I had a fabulous time. Visiting the park for the day was an incredible adventure and an exciting journey with its beautiful vast landscapes and spectacular African wildlife. It took our tour group all day to get there by bus from Johannesburg.
The Safari Lodge
Soon we arrived, and a group of monkeys welcomed us. They sat in trees and stared as we entered the Safari Lodge parking lot., We stayed two nights, and with its 1950s ambiance, tasty food in the dining hall, and breathtaking views, staying at the lodge was quite enjoyable. One could hear wild animals growling and chattering at night, crickets humming, and the mosquitos were relentless. Luckily we had the proper mosquito repellant and had taken malaria pills to protect us from a severe illness.
The Big Five
The following morning at four, we loaded the safari truck with the sack lunches the staff had prepared. Surprised that the sun was already out. It was a beautiful, chilly day. We almost didn’t make it out of the parking lot. Staff working on the safari lodge grounds were protesting low wages. Spilling into the road and parking lot, blocking our passage with huge signs.
Finally, the police arrived an hour later, the people dispersed, and we continued our journey. However, exploring the safari park was an all-day event. We saw Africa’s big five: The Elephant, Lion, Rhino, Leopard, and Buffalo. Afterward, we saw unique wildlife, like the pretty bird and the giant snail in the photos above. Earlier, I found watching a female lion hunt and kill her prey fascinating.
The Bathroom Fiasco
What’s more, bathrooms took a lot of work. The safari guide only stopped every 90 minutes, and the time increased as the day wore on. Unable to hold my water after riding with the guide for over two hours. I complained, and he told me I had to go into the bush. First, I laughed, thinking he was kidding. But he wasn’t. His face remained stern as he stared at me with mocking dark brown eyes.
Hot with anger, the safari guide and I had an intense five minute conversation. I decided to go in the bush after he insisted it would be another 45 minutes to get a bathroom. Tearful and embarrassed, my hubby held up his coat, giving me privacy while I quickly peed in the bush. No wild animal snatched me in the process. Thank goodness!
At last, we made it through. Despite, my bathroom mishap, it was an exciting, fun day at South Africa’s most famous safari park. Next Sunday, I’ll tell you about my journey to Robben Island Prison, where Nelson Mandela spent 18 years! Stay Tuned, and Thank you for reading!
“It was a cold, bleak, December morning in Alaska, a place so far north on planet earth that if there were such things as popsicle people, they could live there quite comfortably.-Dew Pellucid
Happy New Year, everybody! I know it’s late, but as most of you know, I am a clinical social worker and an aspiring Novelist. I’ve been in Alaska, the last frontier, the locals say, on a three-month contract working in a rehab hospital in Anchorage. Between the heavy amounts of snow, the scary-looking ravens, and the humongous moose trotting down the streets, stopping traffic, it’s been quite an experience, I must say.
The people here are friendly, much to my surprise. The mountain range is breathtaking on a sunny day. The seafood in most restaurants is to die for. Halibut, shrimp, salmon , and fresh sourdough bread are the Alaskan favorites, and the sausage reindeer hotdog is an acquired taste.
When I arrived here in early December, adjusting to the below-freezing temperatures ( one day, it was -2 degrees), thirty inches of snow, and darkness until ten in the morning took me a while. When I wasn’t working, I stayed inside, snuggled in my wool pajamas, working on my latest novel, Leaving Henry. Inspired by the snowy scenery outside my window, I’ve written twenty-two chapters since I have been here. Writing my mother’s life story has been a rewarding but tedious journey. I’m halfway done. Only twenty chapters to go. Whew!
Working and writing aren’t the only activities I’ve been doing. Donell and I took scenic weekend excursions, driving along the coast. Navigating the icy, curvy roads is not for the faint of heart. But we were fearless, driving through snow and ice to reach our destinations. We visited the Alyeska Resort, which was forty-five minutes from Anchorage, and the City of Seward, a rough, bumpy ride was two hours away. We visited the gift shops and bought odds and ends, and ate at their local eateries while we were there. On the way back from Seward, we left later than we intended, and it was a little scary. Dark like tar and no street lights to speak of. The only light we had was the oncoming cars in the opposite direction. However, we made it back to Anchorage safely. A close call to say the least.
Two weekends ago, my sister, Crys, came for a visit. We stopped by the Anchorage Museum and saw native artwork and artifacts. The history of the indigenous native people was quite impressive. I love their masks and clothing and their love for nature. Take a look at the face masks below. I found it intriguing that the African masks and Native face coverings were similar. Alaska and Africa are on opposite ends of the world, but the cultural differences are not that far apart.
This week the Alaskans are having their annual winter festival called the “Furrondy.” The streets of Anchorage come alive with winter sports, native culture, and many unique events, such as “Running with the Reindeer!” This is not your usual race, and the truth is, it’s pretty remarkable. Instead of getting chased by bulls, you get chased by rambunctious reindeer. Hundreds of people participate in this race, running as fast as they can to outrun the reindeer, and at the end, everyone gets a reindeer hotdog, and the reindeer prepare for the next race. Well, I pass on this one. Not my cup of tea. But I plan to go to the Charlotte Jensen Native Arts Market this upcoming Wednesday! I can’t wait to buy some fabulous native jewelry; I got my greens and am ready to shop! Well, that’s all for now. I will settle in for the evening with my novel, Leaving Henry, and hopefully, write and finish chapter twenty-three. As always, thank you for reading!
As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I am in the process of writing a novel loosely based on my mother’s childhood years in the south during the 1930s. I just finished chapter thirteen, with 17 chapters to go. Yes, it is a slow process, but shaping up to be a riveting, entertaining, and sometimes ill-fated story.
My mother’s memory has faltered for the last two years, particularly during the pandemic. She has exhibited signs of early dementia. Repetitious statements with occasional confusion about past events have been more prominent this year. Sometimes she forgets to eat, which causes me concern.
Mother has stairs in her home and a very steep driveway. Although she walks better than most people her age, she is at high risk for falls. Last summer, she fractured her foot and had fallen recently with no injuries. I lived in Georgia but have stayed with her for over six months. I help her with the minor chores, such as grocery shopping, meal preparation, transportation to appointments, getting her mail, and pulling the trash cans up the steep driveway weekly to set out on the curb for the garbage collector.
I am on a contract with one of the local hospitals in Washington State that will end this week, and I plan to return to Georgia. I have two sisters who live in the area, but they both have full-time jobs. Anticipating my leaving, my sisters and I talked with our mother about hiring a part-time caregiver in the home one morning over breakfast. My mother spent the weekend with my sister, Cheryl, where the conversation took place. . Needless to say, she had plenty of witty comebacks for every argument we had. It went something like this:
“Mom, you know I’m leaving soon, and we need to talk about what’s going to happen after I leave.”
“Oh, really?” she frowned. “Where you’re going?”
“Remember, I’m going back home next Friday.”
“What are you going to do there?” she asked with big eyes.
“Mom, I lived there. It’s my home!”
“No, your home is where you grew up! Your home is here!” Then she made a face. “Why, you want to go somewhere where they still pick cotton?”
“Mom, Atlanta is a metropolitan city. They’re not picking cotton,” I laughed.
She stared at me with those big hazel eyes of hers. “Mm, you can have the south!”
“Mom, Nita is leaving, and we need to get you help at home because Crys and I work,” Cheryl interjected with wide eyes. “You need someone to do those little chores during the week.”
“Yeah, Cheryl and I will come over on the weekends and help out,” Crys said. But it’s hard to get over there during the week with our work schedules.”
Mom looked around Cheryl’s place with a big smile on her face. “Well, Cheryl, I can stay here with you. I can stay in the room I slept in last night, and there’s a bathroom across the hall. The laundry on the right is at my fingertips. The perfect setup for this old lady.”
“Mom, you’re welcome to stay, but you will need someone to come in every day because I work,” Cheryl reminded her.
“Come in to do what?” Deep creases appeared on her forehead. Mother leaned forward, placing her hand on her thigh. “Let me tell you something. I can bathe and dress. I prepare my own meals, and for an old lady, I can walk better than you! I think I do well for myself for a ninety-five-year-old!”
I took a deep breath. “Mom, that’s true. You can do those things, but you need extra help. That’s all we’re…”
“Help doing what?” she angrily interrupted me. “I have a housekeeper coming in monthly to clean the house. A lawn man to do the yard. What else is there? What are you talking about?”
“Mom, you get confused sometimes. You have short-term memory loss…”
“So, do you, my dear,” she slyly replied with a smirk, cutting me off.
We cracked up laughing. “Mom, I’m serious!” Feeling exasperated. “You forget to eat, and you have lost weight!”
“I don’t need a lot of food. I’m not doing nothing but sitting on my behind! I have worked most of my life, and I deserve to sit on my behind! Besides, I like my weight. I’m trying to get me a boyfriend.”
“How will you do that, sitting in front of the TV all day, watching Jimmy Swaggert?” I earnestly asked, trying not to laugh.
“None of your damn business!” Then her expression turned childlike, and she asked. “Tell me again, what’s this conversation about?”
“Mom, it’s about you getting some help at home,” Crys sighed, frustrated. “If you don’t want someone coming to your home, how about going to that place you like, Patriots Landing.”
“What do I need to go there for?” She stared at Crys with steely hazel eyes. “Are you trying to put me away?”
“NO, MOM!” We all shouted simultaneously.
“Remember we went there to visit last month, and you like the place,” I quickly reminded her. “You said you wanted that one-bedroom apartment. Remember?”
“And you been talking lately about how hard it’s getting keeping up with the house,” Crys added.
“Yes, I have friends there. It’s a nice place. If I moved anywhere, I would go there,” she said, smiling. “I really like that apartment.”
“Then you should go! No time is better than now!” Cheryl piped in.
“Yeah, Mom, you should go! After all, you can afford it,” Crys chimed in.
Mom gave Crys a dirty look. “How do you know what I can afford?” she snapped with her head gyrating.
“I have seen your bank account!”
“What you saw was nothing but pocket change!” she frowned. “It’s not enough there to support an ant!”
“Mom, listen. I think you’ll like it!” I tried to convince her. “There’s plenty of activities and things to do there. “
“Exercise classes, gardening, entertainment, even wine tasting hour,” I explained. “Plenty of exercise and activity to keep one busy and engaged.”
“I get plenty of exercise at home,” she quipped.
I rolled my eyes. “Really, mother? Like what?”
“I walk around the house, straighten the pillows on the couch and look out the window. That’s plenty!”
“Don’t forget you watch Jimmy Swaggert!”
“Oh yeah, well, at least it’s doing something!” Blinking her eyes erratically.
“Mom, you’re stubborn, and you’re stalling!” I angrily pushed back.
“Really? I’ll like to see how you are when you get ninety-five!” she snapped, glaring at me.
“Mom, you have to do something different. You can’t stay in your home without help,” I huffed.
“If I need help, I’ll call Cheryl and Crys, and that’s that!”
Cheryl leaned forward, folding her arms on the table. “That’s not going to work, Mom!”
“And why not?” she glared at Cheryl with that stern, motherly look, taking me back to my childhood days in the 70s.
“We have to work! We can’t be available like that!”
Mother pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “I understand. Let me think about it,” she half-heartedly relented.
“Mom, you had plenty of time to think about it. Nita leaves…”
“Cheryl, pass me that quiche?” Mother gestured. Cheryl pushed the quiche closer to her, and Mother helped herself to a slice, sliding it on her plate. She grabbed her fork and looked up at us, “Now, tell me. What are we talking about?”
Note: Dementia is a slow progression of cognitive decline. Subtle short-term memory changes, confusion, loss of interest in hobbies, difficulty completing tasks, repetitious statements, poor judgment, etc. The risk of dementia increases as you get older with the majority of people developing the condition over the age of 65.
My sister, Crys, and I decided to visit Port Townsend, Washington, for the day to celebrate her birthday.Although we’re both from Washington State, this was our first visit to this pretty little cityon the Quimper Peninsula in Jefferson County. The city only has 10, 148 residents, and it’s best known for having more than 300 Victorian-style homes. Port Townsend is a walkable city with trails, sidewalks, and low-traffic streets. The Jefferson County Courthouse Clock, built-in 1892, stoically towers over the city and bongs every hour.
When my sister and I arrived in Port Townsend around 11 am, Saturday morning, there was hardly a soul on the street. But by 12 noon, the sun came out and the streets were filled with people. We had a ball shopping in the downtown shops. The cute hat I’m wearing, I bought at a boutique called Conservatory Coastal Home on Water Street. A few doors down, I bought this beautiful collector’s mad hatter teapot made in Britain from the Mad Hatter & Company thirty dollars cheaper than the original price.
As we browse the shops, we stopped in Don Tiller Gallery. He paints in vivid, bright colors, his artwork ranges from landscapes to people. We had a lively chat, and although, I didn’t buy any artwork, I took his information to purchase in the near future. I collect art and I hope to add a Don Tiller to my collection soon.
Don Tiller Gallery on Water Street
As the day progressed, we had a late lunch at Sirens, an eatery on the water. The food was so-so, but the view was breathtaking. We ended our day at six, and we decided to cruise through the residential neighborhood on the way out. To our surprise, we saw deer freely roaming the streets and grazing in residents’ yards.
We ended our day at six and decided to cruise the residential neighborhood on the way out. To our surprise, we saw deer freely roaming the streets and grazing in people’s yards, and no one seemed to mind. Even the dogs roaming the streets ignored them. As the sun slowly began to set, we drove out of town. Another adventure, living our best life, and on to another one. Thank you for reading. Until next time!
Hello Friends! I know it’s been a long time since I posted on my blog.I have enjoyed retirement, working part-time, and best of all, writing my Mother’s Memoir, Leaving Henry. It’s been enlightening and enjoyable writing her story. I have written ten chapters so far and have learned so much about her childhood life and the history she has lived through. She has lived a long time. She will be ninety-five in October. When she was born in nineteen twenty-seven, Calvin Coolidge was the President of the United States, and the Klu Klux Clan was running rampant across the Deep South.
Her parents nicknamed her Little Ella after her maternal grandmother in the story. My mother was born in Henry, Tennessee, and grew up poor. Her father was a sharecropper and her mother a maid, and together, they raised six children on a small farm they inherited. They weathered through the Great Depression by living off the land and their meager earnings.
Although my mother was a southern girl, she didn’t like the south much. So, almost since she was knee-high and aware, she made it her life goal to leave the south one day. But she stumbled against obstacles such as racism, poverty, and physical threats to her and her family along the way. But with courage and determination, she realizes her dream.
Leaving Henry is due out next year! Look for it on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble Online Bookstores. In the meantime, visit my website, https://koolstorytellerbooks.com. Happy Mother’s Day Everyone!
Isabelle Perkins has never met a man she truly loves. Newly divorced at the age of thirty, she doesn’t believe she ever will. Isabelle doesn’t believe in fairy tales. When she meets the dashing Lincoln Davis, she is smitten by his handsome looks and immediately attracted to his take-charge confidence.
But she discovers he’s married, forcing her to keep her distance. In a sexless marriage, Lincoln dazzles her with his charm and recklessly pursues her, mesmerized by her beauty and sex appeal. Before long, he persuades her. After a passionate evening of lovemaking, they find themselves embroiled in a hot affair. As time goes on, their feelings deepen, and they fall in love.
Soon, the lines between right and wrong become irrevocably blurred. Isabelle suffers intense guilt for being involved with a married man. The affair challenges her Christian morals and undermines her self-esteem. She entertains leaving Lincoln, but hangs on, convinced he’s her true love.
Lincoln wallows in guilt, disappointed in himself for breaking his marriage vows. Although he loves Isabelle, he’s aware they have no future. Lincoln continues his steamy romance with Isabelle until his wife confronts him. He’s forced to break it off with Isabelle, leaving her devastated and heartbroken.
Eighteen years later, they’re paths cross again. After a sobering brush with death and now divorced, Lincoln is determined to win Isabelle back. But can she set aside her deep hurt and disappointment to let him back into her life and heart?
This book is available in both paperback and hardback on the author’s website, https://www.koolstorytellerbooks.com. If you buy this book on the author’s website, shipping is free and you will receive a complimentary bookmark with your order.
It’s also available in hardback at Barnes and Noble Online Bookstore, and in kindle version and paperback on Amazon.com.
Last week, the world lost a beloved African American movie star and icon. Cicely Tyson’s meteoric career spanned over sixty decades. She was a woman who chose her roles wisely, and she always played strong, inspiring African American female characters—never compromising on the African American experience.
In an unlikely place, I met Cicely Tyson in a restroom at the Atlanta Civic Center one balmy, hot Saturday on June 28, 2003. Mayor Jackson’s family held his funeral there that morning. He died at the young age of sixty-five from a cardiac arrest a few days earlier—a shock to many worldwide.
He was Atlanta’s first African American mayor, and well-known dignitaries and the general public crammed into the civic center to celebrate his legacy that day. Everybody was there, then Atlanta Mayor Shirley Franklin, Congressman John Lewis, Former Mayor Andrew Young, Civil Rights Leader, Coretta Scott King, Reverend Joseph Lowery, and Former President Bill Clinton, to name a few.
Dressed in a sleeveless flowing black dress with the hem an inch above the knee with no stockings, too hot to wear them, I was glad I had on my comfortable black open-toed shoes. The walk from my car to the civic center entrance was hot and long. The rhythmic humming of crickets and cicadas in the green foliage along the sidewalk electrified the humid air. Cars whizzed by me, honking their horns as I strutted down Ralph McGill Avenue. Sweat beaded on my forehead and the black cat-framed sunglasses I sported slid down the bridge of my nose. I reached up and pushed them in place, still maintaining my mysterious persona. The best part about living in a sunny state, one can always wear a fabulous pair of shades.
I sighed with relief when I finally reached the building entrance and walked inside an air-conditioned lobby. I stood under a vent to cool off, and the cold air felt good against my face. As I lingered there, I checked out the vast crowd. My first time at the civic center, I struggled with how to get to the main auditorium, searching for signs in the area to guide me. I saw men in black suits and women with big floppy black hats with elegant matching dresses, or pantsuits jammed up against each other in the lobby.
I wiggled my way through and saw a sign scripted with the word auditorium. I hurried in that direction and saw two ushers standing across from each other at the doubled doors. They waved me through, and I made my way down the aisle. The auditorium had red velvet seating, which surprised me. I settled in a seat in the tenth row at the end, a perfect spot so I could leave early to beat the funeral traffic.
I crossed my legs, set my black purse on my lap, and checked out the mourners as they floated past me in the aisle. They sat in the row in front of me, and the mayor’s family, along with several dignitaries, sat in a roped off section several rows up ahead. The mayor’s gold casket decorated with white chrysanthemums looked beautiful as it sat in front of a shiny black piano. Light from the ceiling reflected off the casket giving it a multi-colored glow. The rise and fall of people conversating around me complimented the soft, melodic gospel music playing in the background, and after everyone took their seats, the doubled doors finally closed. Singing, speeches, and poems filled the auditorium, moving the crowd occasionally to their feet. The going home celebration for Atlanta’s first African American mayor proved to be quite a send-off. After President Clinton finished his speech, I got up and hightailed it to the restroom.
When I entered the bathroom, I noticed an elegant older woman with smooth brown skin adjusting her hat in the mirror. She and I were about the same height, five foot and three inches tall, and she had the most expressive dark brown eyes I have ever seen. We said our hello’s as I parked myself in front of the mirror opposite of her. She applied her red lipstick while I reached in my purse for mine.
She looked familiar to me, and I wondered where I had seen her before. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by asking, so I applied my red lipstick, rolling my lips, as I snuck a peek at the elegant woman in the mirror, carefully checking her out. Finally, we made eye contact, and her expressive eyes seemed to have a hint of laughter. “What brand of lipstick are you wearing?” she asked in a silvery, distinct voice.
“Fashion Fair. Red is my favorite,” I replied.
“Ah, Fashion Fair,” she smiled, showing entirely white, straight teeth. “I love a good red lipstick. Tell me, what shade of red is that? It’s pretty.”
“Red Wine. I wear it all of the time.”
“Well, it’s looks nice on you.”
I felt myself blushing. “Thank you,” I grinned.
“I wear Fashion Fair occasionally. Next time I order, I’ll remember to get some of that red wine lipstick.” The woman smoothed out her dress, grabbed her black sequined purse, and turned in my direction. She looked so familiar to me, and I looked away to keep from staring so hard.
“Well, I must go,” she chuckled. “I don’t want to miss Reverend Joseph Lowery. That man can give some entertaining speeches sometimes.”
“Yes, I heard,” I smiled. “Well, it was nice talking to you.”
“My pleasure.” Then she was gone. I knew I’d seen the lady somewhere before, and I thought about our conversation as I returned to my seat. By the time Reverend Joseph Lowery finished his entertaining speech, it finally hit me. That was Cicely Tyson! Oh, my goodness! I just had a conversation about red lipstick with Cicely Tyson! How could I not have known whoshe was when I was talking with her?Noone would ever believe me!
I went home that day, called my sister, and told her about my brief meeting with the great Cicely Tyson. I never forgot that day—my brief encounter with her has stayed with me for my entire life. We were two women sharing a moment, talking about red lipstick. How funny. I would’ve never guessed it in my wildest dreams.
I’ve shared this story over the years with my friends and family. Because of her death, it seemed appropriate to share it again. Her incredible, prolific talent and contributions to the big screen will endure in our hearts forever. Rest in Peace, Miss Tyson, and thank you again for the wonderful conversation we had in the bathroom that one hot summer day. Thank you for reading. Until next time!
Strange Occurrences, is a hilarious but dark mystery novel that promises to keep you on the edge of your seat. A sequel to the novel, She Was A Fly in The Wrong Soup, Salter’s Point Regional keeps attracting crazy and peculiar professionals to its ranks.
It’s been three years since the tragic fire, and Rachel Thomas discovers Peepers hanging out at Saint Mary’s Cemetery. Thrilled the big cat is still alive, she scoops him up and takes him home. For a while, all is well until a serial killer emerges, wreaking havoc on the hospital. Rachel accidentally learns the killer’s identity, which turns out to be someone she knows. Shocked and scared, Rachel wonders what to do. When the killer strikes again, Rachel has to do something, but will she risk her life and reveal the killer’s identity?
Once again, Anita Dixon Thomas gives the readers an in-depth look at the wild and wacky, and sometimes dark side of the mental health profession.
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